


Reproach

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Trans Male Character, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-11
Updated: 2016-05-11
Packaged: 2018-06-07 18:07:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6818620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bard bargains his way out of paying his taxes with possibly ulterior motives.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reproach

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Hobbit or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

The knock comes late, far past when the children and most of Laketown are asleep—the last house on the route. Bard knows why. His tormentor wants to savour this, draw it out, and under normal circumstances, Bard would be fuming at his table, angrily pushing silver coins across the tabletop.

Today he counts out nothing, but calmly sips his tea while he waits. Or as calm as he could be, anyway. His plan is a crude one, full of guilt and self-disgust, but he’s already worked it out, resigned himself to it, and he knows he’ll follow through.

Then the knock comes, he puts his cup down, and he makes his way to the creaking wooden door that separates him from the cold night air.

Alfrid Lickspittle stands on the other side, smirking greasily with three guardsmen flanking him, their armour almost as dingy as Bard’s rags. Alfrid announces immediately, as though Bard could possibly forget, “You know what time it is, Bard. I’m here to collect taxes.”

As level as he always is with Alfrid’s laughably bad threats, Bard answers, “I’m not going to pay the taxes.”

For one split second, Alfrid looks shocked, but then he settles into wry amusement. The guards press tightly in at his side, ready to act, but Bard only has eyes for Alfrid. Alfrid snorts, “The Master doesn’t care how many children you’ve been foolish enough to sire, you can’t just—”

Bard rolls his eyes and saves them both the speech by interjecting, “You’re going to let me not pay.”

Now Alfrid looks confused as well as surprised, and he grunts back, “No, I’m not.”

Bard stares bluntly at Alfrid. Then, when that doesn’t get the point across, he pointedly eyes the guards. Alfrid glares at Bard back, then begrudgingly looks around and dismisses them with an annoyed wave of his hand. Looking just as disgruntled as Alfrid, the guards slink back into the shadows, not far across the wooden bridge but at least pretending to look elsewhere. Their armour catches the moonlight and makes them look particularly conspicuous.

Alfrid turns back to Bard, scowling, and leans forward to hiss, fully out of earshot of his backup, “What do you want?”

Bard explains, phrasing it as an inevitability rather than a question, “I don’t have to pay, and you can touch me.”

Alfrid’s eyes go just about as wide as dinner plates. 

He looks over his shoulder, as though to find a guard laughing at him over having set this up, but they’re all at a respectable distance. Back to Bard, he repeats hoarsely, “Touch you.”

“Yes.”

Quickly pulling himself together and no longer bothering to keep his eyes on Bard’s face, Alfrid grunts, “Where?”

Bard shrugs his shoulders like it doesn’t make any difference to him. “Anywhere you like.”

Alfrid’s eyes squint suspiciously. “For how long?”

“One minute.”

“Five minutes.”

“One minute.”

“Two minutes.”

“Thirty seconds.”

“Okay, okay,” Alfrid snarls, which doesn’t surprise Bard in the slightest; he knows just how much Alfrid looks at him, talks of him, obsesses over him. The only question there ever was with the plan’s viability is whether or not he could accept himself for not hating the idea. Alfrid licks his lips, eyes flashing full of hunger, and agrees, “One minute.”

Bard gives no reaction, so the two of them stand there, ridiculously close, huddled in the rickety doorway under the overhang of the upstairs porch, boring holes into one another’s heads. Usually when Bard daydreams this disgusting configuration—always with a healthy dose of guilt after—he imagines Alfrid getting down on his knees, shedding his own clothes and eagerly eating Bard out. Sometimes Bard pictures sitting on Alfrid’s cock in the privacy of his barge, halfway across the lake with no one around to know and judge, but a minute’s not long enough for that, and Bard’s not ready to let reality get that far tonight. He waits to see what Alfrid’s part of the fantasy is, but Alfrid just stares at Bard with a mixture of lust, fury, and disbelief. They’ve never been healthy together.

Finally, Bard lifts a challenging eyebrow and accuses, “Well?”

Maybe Alfrid didn’t think it would happen right here, right now, but the single word seems to push him—he surges forward, his chapped lips smashing right into Bard’s. Bard lets out a muffled cry of surprise, and Alfrid thrusts his long tongue right into Bard’s mouth, harsh and graceless, his teeth bashing into Bard’s and his saliva getting everywhere. He doesn’t seem to care. His tongue’s already going wild, mapping out every nook and cranny of Bard’s mouth, while one arm wraps around Bard’s waist and the other shoves into Bard’s trousers. It dives right down, squirming to get beneath Bard’s underwear, the sleeve of Alfrid’s coat being pushed up in the process. Alfrid’s fingers wrap between Bard’s legs, cupping him, and while Bard tries not to react to just how _wet_ Alfrid’s hand around his pussy makes him, Alfrid makes a lecherous moan. 

When it’s clear that Bard’s not going to stop him, Alfrid goes full force—he rubs his thumb over Bard’s slit, digging in to find the little nub at the top, his fingers pressing in and squeezing. It takes everything Bard has not to moan back. He fights to keep his arms straight at his sides, his mouth slack. Alfrid twists his fingers to stroke around Bard’s entrance, rapid and constant, then curls one to pop inside. Alfrid can’t stop a tiny grunt. Alfrid’s entire body shivers, and he pushes his finger in to the knuckle, as quickly as Bard’s entrance will allow. He tries to clench himself, tries to resist, but he’s already dribbling around Alfrid’s hand and pulsing with _want_. Alfrid kisses him the whole way through it, fucking Bard with both tongue and fingers. 

In a heartbeat, Alfrid has another finger in, and he scissors Bard apart like this is going to lead to more—and Bard thinks of it, tries not to but can’t help himself, wonders what it would be like to sink onto Alfrid’s hard dick right here on his own doorstep, with the guards to watch—and Bard catches himself sucking on Alfrid’s tongue and hurriedly stops. 

Drawing them alternatively open and closed, Alfrid thrusts the two fingers wildly into Bard’s body, his front grinding into Bard and the bulge in his trousers practically straining to get free. Alfrid’s other hand splays over Bard’s spine, then twists around and under Bard’s shirt, running up and over the binder, fingers curling in to the white material as though to rip it away and free Bard’s chest, but that’s one step too far. Bard knows it’s been well over a minute. He wants Alfrid to keep brutally fingering him, but the thought of Alfrid abusing his tits is one of his darkest fantasies that he swore he’d never _really_ let happen, so he shoves Alfrid back with full strength. 

Alfrid, of course, is nearly knocked to his feet, his hands jerking out of Bard’s trousers and shirt. He looks completely ruined, flushed and panting with dilated eyes, frazzled and _ravenous._ Bard’s breathing just as hard.

He wants to tell Alfrid off but doesn’t quite have the words. He also wants to invite Alfrid in, but he’s ashamed of that desire. 

Alfrid breathes, shaky, “You’ll have to pay your taxes next month.”

Bard says simply, “No, I won’t,” which Alfrid can take anyway he likes. Then Bard steps back and slams his door shut. He’s half surprised that Alfrid doesn’t have the guards kick it down. 

Only when he’s sure they’re all long gone does Bard slip a trembling hand into his trousers. He closes his eyes and pretends his hand’s Alfrid’s, bizarrely grateful that he finally knows what that feels like.


End file.
